were gnarled and raw,
knotty and bulbous,
resembling a garlic bulb.
November was left out
in the rain, in the cold wind,stumbling through earlier
darkness.
November’s hunched shoulders
and drooped arms under the bitterness of grey
skies.
November’s barren arms,
empty of any reaching,blown clear by emerging
sharp and frosty breezes.
November’s neck, sore from
trying, feeling the weightgrow ever heavier, the pulse
of cooling blood throbbing.
November shuffles from one
foot to the next, standing in place,trying to remember what warmth was,
what sunshine and sapphire skies were like.
November’s cheeks, ruddy and pot marked,
sand and dirt blasted, eyes bloodshot,foggy and muddled.
An ache lingering everywhere all over.
November is November’s nightmare.
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